John wouldn't have saved the girl
by xxbeyondxbirthdayxx
Summary: "Sherlock, does that seem so foreign to you to have real friends that the idea of them wanting to protect you irks you?" "Yes, when they are so desperate to do so that they'd let anyone else around be killed... Not that it would have made me feel bad. Crimes, murders, innocents being killed in the process, such things happen... But it's what I do, not what Doctor John Watson does."


_**Note:** I started this in August, but was fighting to find the right tone. I'm coming from the Death Note's Matt x Mello area, hardly wrote anything else for more than three years so I was a bit lost as to what to do with other characters, let alone from another fandom. As much as I am into Sherlock, the change looked radical to me until I realised I just had to let it come as it was. Heh, enjoy! (or not XD)_

* * *

The cab was too slow, too slow!  
Sherlock's heart was beating so fast that he could hardly breathe, looking around like a trapped animal in the vehicle, because a part of him wanted out, to run to his destination and another knew very well that even that slow, the cab was still faster than he'd be, running.  
He just concentrated on the streets. He didn't do panic.

* * *

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!"  
"I don't believe you." Shan was getting impatient. The jade hairpin was _hers_, and she would be damned if she didn't get it back from this second zone detective. She had given him three warning, and yet, he had been stupid enough to ignore them. Or did he really think he was smart enough to escape death three times with his own intelligence only?  
She was impatient, but she wouldn't pass the occasion to have a little fun right now. Sherlock was feinting ignorance, so she could at least take part to the game. Except that she had the upper hand...  
She smirked at the thought. That was so good, so good, to see fear flicker in those eyes.

John was helpless. And he _wished _he was Sherlock at that precise moment, because this way he'd know how to get away from this. To save Sarah. He was just feeling useless, tied to this chair and almost wetting himself in fear. He'd had it much worse in Afghanistan, and for some unknown reason he had never been that scared. To the point where there was no fear adrenaline, just wobbling knees and helplessness.  
The irony of his thought toward his date dawned on him at the precise moment when the baritone voice resounded in the tunnel.  
"You should, you know."

Shan skilfully contained a start, surprise painted over her face for barely two seconds before she regained her assurance. She had been wrong, the man in front of her wasn't Sherlock, but the latter surely considered him important enough to save, or maybe it was the girl, whatever, she still had the upper hand, and whoever was Sherlock, he'd be dead in seconds.

Aiming toward the voice, she stopped mid-gesture.  
"That gun's a semi automatic. Fire it and the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second." The deep voice began explaining, still safe in the shadows.  
"Well?" Now really was the time to give her a lesson about weapons?  
"The radius curvature of these walls is almost four metres. If you miss the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone, even you."  
Shan lowered her gun, piqued.

The relief of hearing Sherlock in the distance was short lived as something that John quickly connected to angst took over in his mind. Confused, he stared at the shadow of his friend, moving in the dark, as he made his calculated way to him and Sarah, knocking out a man, kicking one of the the burning barrels, drowning them all a bit more in the dark.  
It was quick, effective, precise.

Sherlock wasted no time in trying to untie Sarah. The nooses were tight for sure, and he felt himself being pulled backward, strangled by a silky material around his neck before he could undo the rope. He didn't even need to think to know who was on him.  
But no matter how much he fought back, the hands on him were strong.

John suddenly felt a surge of panic. He managed to jump forward, trying to reach Sarah but tripping, he fell. Could things go any worse? Of course, it was only a rhetorical question. John found himself hoping that Chinese gods hadn't read his mind because they could surely find a way of making the miserable even more miserable. Why did he suddenly beg Asian gods, he asked himself. Maybe just because he was caught in the folklore of the situation, like if it was the time for something so stupid. Damn... he was going crazy with anxiety...

As a desperate move, John finally managed to kick in the big crossbow, firing it at the same occasion.  
He saw, his mind making a slow motion, the arrow fly in direction of Sherlock and his attacker. For the split second that it took for the arrow to get fired, and for it to pierce straight into Soo Lin's brother's stomach, conflicting ideas fought in John's head. Ideas he should not have. But he realised that he didn't even hate himself for such thoughts, as the Asian man fell on the floor, as Sherlock got finally freed, looked at the ones running away, released Sarah and stood face to him, alive, and reading straight through his mind.

But whatever Sherlock thought of John's inner conflict, nothing perspired through the impassible face.  
The way he looked at him made John uncomfortable. Because more than reading, Sherlock was thinking, and John wasn't sure he wanted Sherlock to analyse him at that precise moment.  
"Don't worry, next date won't be like this." he joked, looking at Sarah, trying to break the staring contest.

Feeling slightly guilty for his previous thoughts, John pushed Sarah forward, gently, as they exited the tunnel, Sherlock following behind.

As shaken as the woman looked, John didn't have the heart to climb in the car that drove her home to comfort her, and not leave her alone after such a rough night. She didn't really seem to mind, and John erased guilt by assuring himself that she probably preferred to get away from him, at least for a while.  
Even if himself didn't think he'd meet her again. As much as he should be ashamed of acting like he was at that moment, the thoughts that kept looping in his mind since Sherlock had come to save them, the angst he had felt, it occulted it all. He knew where this was going. He had probably even known for a long time, but didn't want to admit it.  
And part of him knew that Sherlock had guessed, too, this evening.

* * *

Sherlock and him climbed the stairs in silence, careful not to wake Mrs Hudson up. They had been driven back here, both shut in a strange silence. It wasn't Sherlock's usual mutism, and John could tell the difference very well.

As they entered the living room, John shutting the door behind them, he looked at the taller man's back. Sherlock didn't turn around, standing there in his coat, still dead silent.  
John went to the kitchen to prepare some tea, unable to take it. Sherlock seemed mad at him and John couldn't blame him for that. It just comforted him in the idea that indeed, Sherlock had read his mind, and wasn't happy with John's previous train of thoughts.

When he came back from the kitchen, Sherlock hadn't moved.  
John deposited the tray on the low table, but the soft jangle of cups on saucers had no effect on his friend.  
"Sherlock..." John began, unsure of what to say.  
Sherlock shifted slightly.  
"Sherlock I... please, say something."  
"The time that you decided to take action and move was the exact same time as when I came in the fire line of the crossbow."  
Whatever hope John had had that Sherlock hadn't noticed, even if completely foolish since it was _Sherlock_, vanished at that moment.  
"You're my friend, Sherlock, and that does imply wanting to protect you."

Sherlock turned around, his palms joined in front of his mouth. He had _that _ look on. John still wanted to clear up the situation, in an attempt not to lose what he had now: a dear friend, a nice apartment, entertainment. A pretty nice life he would trade only for one thing. And he wasn't even close to getting it, so he would hold on to what he had real strong.  
But it would be pretty difficult to lure Sherlock into believing the lies he readied himself to utter when he knew he wouldn't even sound convincing to his own ears.

John hated those staring contests with his friend. Sherlock's eyes were so full of that 'I-know-the-truth-and-I-can-prove-every-bit-of-my-reasoning' look, with a good pinch of 'don't-you-dare-challenging-me' he usually reserved to Lestrade.  
"Sherlock, does that seem so foreign to you to have real friends that the idea of them wanting to protect you irks you?"  
"Yes, when they are so desperate to do so that they'd let anyone else around be killed." Sherlock stared a bit more, as his look got back to his usual superior gaze and his hands fell to his sides, "Not that it would have made me feel bad, crimes, murders, innocents being involved and eventually killed in the process, such things happen." The tall man emphasized his words with a histrionic gesture of the arm, "But it's what _I _do, not what Doctor John Watson does."

"What does that mean?" John asked. That should have been Sherlock's line, had he been anyone else, but Sherlock never asked what things meant. He figured it out before he had to ask. So John, instead of hiding things, since it obviously wouldn't work, decided he's get into Sherlock's mind. Maybe what his friend thought wasn't as precise as he thought. Like hell.  
"Oh. Now should I state the obvious. For God's sake John, why are you trying to treat this little... matter... shall I call it this way?... as if I was on the same level as you. Of course, don't be offended. Oh well, you perfectly know what I mean, speaking of level of course, because you obviously still wonder about how far I read you, don't you?" Sherlock smirked.

This little twist of Sherlock's mouth made anger overtake any other feeling John had until now.  
"Little matter? Well, maybe because this is by no means a _little_matter, Sherlock. It's a damn big deal and if you plan on mocking whatever you read in me, just don't. I can't take it, and I won't. You know what? Forget it. Let's get back to normal, dismiss it, whatever, but don't make it look like it's nothing and send it back to my face."

Sherlock for once did look genuinely surprised. Of course, he had been putting for quite some time now John dating girls on the account of giving some illusion about being straight, or to keep him thinking that he wasn't interested, after their little misunderstanding in the restaurant, the day they waited for the murderer to show up after Sherlock had texted him on his victim's pink phone. He'd even been wondering about how much truth John's occasional puns hid. But just as the rest, it had only been a game to him. He did notice some signs of confusion in John even sometimes, stuttering, dilated pupils, whatever, but he had never deemed anything serious enough to focus on the matter. John wasn't straight, this, he had figured it out in their early days as flatmates, John would probably agree on dating him, this was a fact he could consider as well, but it wasn't _serious_. Come on, it couldn't be!

Sherlock was good at figuring people out, but he was even more accurate when it came to himself. There was never confusion or hesitation, he knew himself. And right now, he knew that he had to keep what was happening in the game department. Because if it ever was as serious as John seemed to want it to be right now, himself would have a problem. A huge problem. And although the solution was obvious, he wasn't too keen on it. He would go as far as to say he was displeased by the mere thought of it.

"I'm not sending anything back to your face, John. There isn't anything to send back, actually. Something crossed your mind, that shouldn't have to begin with, you know it's unrequited, I've already explained why, you had a weak moment in the heat of the panic, there is no reason to make a fuss and..."  
"Telling me it's unrequited isn't sending it back to my face? Especially with that mocking little smile of yours plastered on your face?" John wasn't sure anymore about what had happened. Didn't Sherlock look like he was annoyed in the first place? "Why didn't you ignore me then, instead of giving me the silent treatment when we came home?"

Sherlock knew that John had the point, and he was far from liking it. He was a very bad loser.  
He stared at John. The control he had had over his emotions until now was running away, fast.  
Anger. He rarely felt angry, and rarely to that extent. Violently, he pushed John backward until they both reached the wall with a loud thud of John's back against it, sending the vase on the little furniture beside him on the floor, the carpet fortunately breaking the fall.

John coughed, air suddenly forced out of his lungs by the shock. His breathing laboured both by the onrush and Sherlock's furious stare in his own eyes, he sustained the icy eyes because he needed to understand where that came from, but all he could see was the vein on his friend's forehead more prominent and a look of pure rage. Nothing in Sherlock's expression could explain what was happening. But the detective, as dramatic as he liked to be, wasn't one for overreaction, so there was obviously a reason.  
"Do you realise, John, the situation you're dragging me in? Do you have any idea?" Sherlock punctuated every word of the last sentence, venomous.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, totally taken aback. What was happening for God's sake?  
"You're putting _this_ on my shoulders, do you realise what it means, John? DO YOU?!"  
At that point, John knew it was dangerous to tell Sherlock to keep it down not to wake Mrs Hudson up. He just wished very hard that she wouldn't hear and be alarmed. Or maybe she should, so maybe she'd interrupt, because that was becoming more than uncomfortable. A lot more: John was scared. And like any soldier, the instinct of fighting back took the upper hand.

Pushing the taller man to free himself from Sherlock's cage of arms on each side of him against the wall, only to find himself pushed back against it, he retaliated with words.  
"What, _this_, Sherlock? I don't know what it means, because first of all I don't know what I'm supposed to put on your shoulders, and second, why all this anger so suddenly? How did we go from you sulking in silence to this physical assault? Explain to me Sherlock, because I'm not the know-it-all smartass detective here, and I don't get you at all!"

Sherlock stared in silence, anger vanishing from his eyes little by little. John really was clueless. Of course he was. Who wouldn't be, when the most rational person on Earth became so irrational all of a sudden?

"Maybe you don't get it, maybe you do, and it means you're stupid enough to want to play mind games with me. No, you wouldn't do that. How did that happen? How can you... not me, I've not done anything for that, there is no reason. You can't possibly expect that from me. But your feelings are strong, I know it, I see it. So what now? You don't know, I don't know, there isn't a solution that can please both of us, it's all going to be radically unpleasant and..."  
"Sherlock." John knew that his friend was on analytic mode but he didn't feel like he could be patient enough right now to wait for the end of Sherlock's rapidly muttered soliloquy.

Sherlock stopped cold, his hands still joined at mouth's level, like everytime he reflected hard on a case.  
But this wasn't a case, the solution wasn't a given one and there was no clue to help him find the right answer.  
He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, crossing his arms, head falling on his chest in defeat.

He opened his eyes again, still totally ignoring John as he rose his gaze to the ceiling, sighing again.  
"Mycroft was right. I hate that. I hate that SO much."  
He turned to John, a smile in his eyes.

John was more than confused now. Sherlock sometimes... okay, often was a diva, changing moods and histrionic behaviour included, but John was used to it because he usually could decipher their reasons to be.  
Now... it was just a big mess and he wasn't even trying to sort his ideas out anymore, he was just a silent witness to Sherlock being a stranger now. This wasn't the attitude of the man he had known for quite some time. Acting like this was as far from his friend as could be.

"Sherlock, listen." John began, seeing no end to this play, "Let's just go to bed and forget whatever happened. It's better for both of us."  
"Oh no. No John." Sherlock approached the place where John was standing, still close to the wall, "You've put me in that situation, I won't let you get away with it now." With this, the detective stood with all his stature face to John.  
Strangely, he wasn't looking threatening, John thought, despite the words he had just uttered. He looked... fragile. Like still fighting against something but already knowing he would give in.

Arms still crossed, munching on his thumb's nail, Sherlock was staring straight in John's eyes. The latter was almost holding his breath. It was intense, and different. Sherlock wasn't defying, analysing, mocking, or whatever he was usually doing. He was... on fire. But a different fire. Not one that drove him during a case, not one of excitement at the discovery of a clue or the beginning of an interesting investigation. A peaceful fire. Strong, but reassuring, and for an instant, John could see Sherlock's shoulders lose a bit of their proud straightness.

"I won't let you get away with the fact that your obvious feelings for me make it impossible for me to hold back anymore. It's not a little crush you have, is it? No. Don't answer. It wasn't a question. I see it in your eyes, it's something that will always be there, not matter how much of a jerk I can be, and will be in the future. And I love you too, John. I will give back to you, because no matter if I keep on holding back or if I reciprocate your feelings, I am doomed. Either way it won't leave my mind and will make me less alert, and for that matter, more at risk than never. So better give in, after all, we're both doomed. Now that you've put us in that situation, give me everything, so at least it's not useless."  
With this, Sherlock pushed John back against the wall, gentler than the first time.

John kept his eyes wide, so wide open, as, trapped between the wall and Sherlock's body, their lips connected. It was everything he had ever wanted and still, he had thought for so long now that it would never, ever happen, that he couldn't help his eyes stare at his friend's skin from so close, wide as plates.  
It's only when he finally recovered from the surprise enough to reply to the kiss that he closed them, feeling Sherlock's tongue on his, his arms finding their way under the long coat, around the detective's waist.

It was overwhelming. It was like witnessing Sherlock's burning personality from a very different angle, like feeling the fire from within... The taller man was almost folded all over him, his arms around his neck, back, pulling him close as he deepened the kiss even more, both mouths open wide one against the other, trying to get more of every physical contact.  
It wasn't as clumsy as John had imagined it to be in his wet dreams, actually, they fitted. The awkward had no place between them as Sherlock broke the kiss for air, his hands holding each side of John's face, staring at him like a kid getting something he'd crave for so long.

John felt his eyes water under such a gaze. Never had he imagined his friend capable of feelings of that nature. Sherlock was somehow a mystery to everyone when it came to love. No known relationship, not even the slightest idea about his sexual orientation. A mystery to everyone but Mycroft apparently, although John didn't exactly know why Sherlock's brother was right, and about what.  
To him, Sherlock was a bit like a snake when it came to love. Cold, slippery, quickly sliding away from the topic, swirling his tongue mockingly, uncaring for the fuss about relationships or sex.

But there John was, his heart swollen, so full of what he was seeing in Sherlock's eyes right now: he mattered.  
"So you've loved me for probably as long as I have loved you, and you would have kept it all to yourself forever if it hadn't been for tonight?" John couldn't help but ask.  
"Yes." Sherlock simply replied.  
"And after tonight?"  
"We'll probably have to go our separate ways."  
"Do you think I'll let you go that easily?" John chuckled sadly. He was already feeling a lump forming in his throat, because he had known it would probably come to this.  
"Don't."

Sherlock held him tighter against his chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck.  
"I've already made you admit your feelings so I'm feeling pretty powerful right now." John mumbled, his hands gripping Sherlock's shirt.  
"Still, you'd better take everything you can right now before I..." the detective didn't end his sentence, his voice breaking.

John was the one to push Sherlock backward this time, until they reached the couch. Sherlock was scared and John knew it. Scared to see his abilities lower, muffled by feelings so strong he didn't even know how to handle them, scared to care too much and lose the one he loved, scared to let it go and never get everything of what he had seen in John's eyes in the tunnel, so much worry and love and care and damn, just being the one to John's eyes, obviously, scared that he'd have enough balls to run away the next day because it simply couldn't be like that, it wasn't that easy, someone might get hurt. Scared that John didn't manage to keep him here...

But as both ended naked, John slowly rocking him on the couch, both tangled, sweaty and panting, he knew, by the way his friend... lover looked at him, that never would he get away, there wasn't a way in the world for him to escape the one that had broken all his barriers, as strong as they were.  
"Never underestimate John, Sherlock." had Mycroft told him once, "You may think you can handle this, but the day you realise that he's there, that he's really there for you, he'll have full control over you. Oh... don't you be scared, he's not like you, calculating and a show-off. He's the closest to innocent as you could get, you're lucky. But as innocent as he is, he's stronger than you can ever dream to be, little brother. And once you see him for what he really is, not just your short sidekick, you'll understand that you have no escape. He will give you no escape."

This all made sense now... Sherlock had always seen John as a helpful hand, an assertive sidekick, the puppy always ready to follow him. A friend, too, even if he wasn't sure he wanted to do friendship. It was complicated, being careful not to hurt feelings, although John seemed pretty much immune to his sarcasm now. Showing attention, stuff like that, it wasn't convenient.  
Yes, he previously felt he could have dated John, in another life, maybe, if things were easier, less dangerous. But when John had made the choice to get Sarah killed over him, everything clicked in place like a puzzle solving itself alone, where Sherlock tried to push the pieces apart but they just found their place on their own accord, uncaring for his fears and will and protest.  
His own feelings surfaced, and they wouldn't drown back down under the surface of the skin he thought thick enough to cover them.

He was mad at John, because it was all his friend's fault after all. He tried to fight his feelings a little more, silently willing them away, but it had been useless.  
So he had unleashed his anger on John. Then he had craved for things to happen. After all, now that they were at it, better let it happen, right? John had made the mistake to fall for him, so now he would pay, he would love him.

Sherlock wasn't good at lying to himself so he didn't try for long. It was nobody's fault, and he was tired of fighting his feelings. So he just admitted them to John, and he couldn't even believe his own ears when he heard himself tell John that he loved him.

Mycroft was right. Now in John's eyes was the shadow of a fighter, one that flickered, giving Sherlock glimpses of what his lover was capable of. No, he wouldn't let him go. Sherlock hoped very hard he wouldn't. Because himself was stupid enough to try to run away.  
But John would do anything, and it wasn't only his eyes telling Sherlock so. It was all the previous events, and John ready to let anyone die as long as it wasn't Sherlock.

Because John wouldn't have saved the girl.


End file.
